


How Thorin Learned He Liked to Top

by StrivingArtist



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Body Swap, Bottom Thorin, M/M, Masturbation, Mostly silly, Retaliatory Wanking, Smut, Some Plot, Top Bilbo, handwave magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 01:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5520146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wizard smiled all compassionate and indecipherable, then fiddled with the gem on the top of his staff. “Perhaps you should seek a new perspective, then the pair of you might find it easier to understand each other.”<br/>If they had known what had just passed, neither Bilbo nor Thorin would have let the Wizard walk out of the mountain that afternoon.<br/>As it was, they didn’t, so the afternoon faded, and as they often did, the day ended with Bilbo and Thorin behind a closed door, revelling the availability of privacy and soft surfaces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Thorin Learned He Liked to Top

**Author's Note:**

> only sorta betaed. But my thanks to Moo and Meph anyway for listening to me whine when I kept writing myself into corners.

“Would you kindly extricate that stick out of your royal arse and think?”

“You cannot possibly understand the intricacies of the circumstances!“

“What’s there to understand? You don’t like elves!”

“No one likes elves!”

“I like elves! Elves like elves! Men likes elves! Kíli likes elves!”

“Kíli only likes one elf, that hardly counts!”

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t like them!”

“Of course it matters!”

“You have to sign a trade agreement you pompous nincompoop!”

“Nincompoop?? That’s the insult you choose to employ Hobbit?”

“I am attempting to avoid calling the soon to be crowned king of Erebor a poncy bloody bastard, so don’t you start picking at my insults or I’ll stop censoring myself!”

“As if you could ever manage to—“

“ _Ahem_.”

The pair of them spun to stare at their audience, which, in the rush of screaming at each other, they had forgotten was still in the room. Not that the company hadn’t seen them… ah… go at it … before. It was just that, since that night in Laketown, where thier relationship had taken a turn for the physical in a rather vocal and obvious manner, they tended not to scream at each other in anger. Often, at least.

So the company was gaping.

So was Gandalf.

Most of the company began signing back and forth on the subject of the great betting pool in the sudden calm, but Balin and the Wizard simply leaned together and began to conspire.

Never a good sign.

Thorin was expecting some kind of flash. Bilbo was leaning away as if a firecracker was about to explode.

Neither occurred. The blasted wizard simply smiled all compassionate and indecipherable, then fiddled with the gem on the top of his staff. “Perhaps you should seek a new perspective, then the pair of you might find it easier to understand each other.”

If they had known what had just passed, neither Bilbo nor Thorin would have let the Wizard walk out of the mountain that afternoon.

As it was, they didn’t, so the afternoon faded, and as they often did, the day ended with Bilbo and Thorin behind a closed door, reveling the availability of privacy and soft surfaces.

 

***

 

“Hhhnnnngggh. Thorin. No That isn’t fair. Please don’t— ohhhhh, not my ears, you know I can’t — hnnggh.” Bilbo was in his lap, simultaneously trying to escape the teeth that were worrying over the edge of his ear and grind his hips further into Thorin’s. And he made the greatest sounds while he did.

Whenever Thorin found a particularly effective location, he would stay there, nipping sharper, sucking longer, and dragging the most deliciously frustrated groans out of his hobbit. It was a game, they both knew that, but they both enjoyed the game, so it was no matter. Even if Thorin spent ages in control as they stripped and explored and tasted — oh Mahal the tasting was wonderful — in the end, it was Bilbo who did the taking.

Perhaps it was just a desire to be had, perhaps it was a not wholly unsubstantiated fear that his own girth would prove too much of a challenge, perhaps it was an ongoing apology for that business on the ramparts, or, most likely, it may have been that Thorin just liked to get fucked.

Bilbo was quite good at it. And knew he was.

This resulted in a great many evenings in which Bilbo would taunt and tease him in the most excruciating pleasure until Thorin would attempt to order him to get on with it. It never worked.

In fact, ordering Bilbo about tended to make it worse for Thorin. If the definition of worse was expanded to include toe curling pleasure.   

Once Bilbo knew that Thorin had crossed that line into frantic want, a greedy grin tended to bloom on his cheeks, and Thorin always wished he had kept his mouth shut. However, it did usually end with Thorin so blissed out that he would fall asleep wherever they had been, and would wake in the morning with a hobbit cuddled against him, and a motley assembly of blankets atop them that Bilbo had dragged from the bed. That part was excellent.

The taunting during the act was less so.

Thus, Thorin exacted penance in the form of those little whimpers.

All in all, they had a fantastic system worked out.

Thorin ducked his head down to Bilbo’s bare — so very smooth, hairless, bare — chest, and began to suck a mark just below his collarbone. At the same time he rocked his hips up and smirked as a gasp sounded. Bilbo tipped back, arching his spine as Thorin continue rolling his hips, grinding their lengths together. With better access, he could lower his head still further and draw a teasing line around the dark bead of his eager nipples.

There was cursing for that.

He mouthed at one, letting his tongue only occasionally lick with heavy pressure, and rolled the other beneath his thumb. Bilbo was trying to maintain his control, that was obvious, but a particularly well timed suck, partnered with a firm pinch, ripped an angry moan out of the hobbit.

Thorin found his head tilted up and a wild kiss invaded his mouth. Hands tightened their grip in his hair, and he allowed himself to be overwhelmed.

Bilbo was a great many incredible things, but he was not, and would never be, stronger than Thorin. But that was part of why it set Thorin’s blood on fire like it did. Knowing that he had willingly surrendered to whatever Bilbo wanted from him was a rush almost as intense as what Bilbo actually did to him.

They had both been dressed when they sat across that chair in the main chamber, but somewhere in between Bilbo’s taking charge of the pair of them, and when Thorin crashed backwards onto the bed, all of the clothing vanished.

Irrelevant information though, and not worth his focus.

Bilbo was clean and bright and smiling down at him, only half from a possessive ownership, and Thorin would have been happy to admire him for a long while.

Bilbo had other plans.

Well oiled plans. In every sense.

The jar of oil by Thorin’s bed was a twin to the one beside Bilbo’s. It was a clever little mixture that smelled of something beyond the banal pungent tartness of most oil. No, it smelled of cloves and something sweet that was forever associated with the hobbit that was dunking his fingers into it.

One hand settled on Thorin’s knee as he watched, and pressed down, spreading his legs open. Bilbo traced deceptively lazy lines down Thorin’s shaft, left a trail of cool oil over his balls, and moved still lower, pressing lightly in a promise.

Now that he was in control, a bit of the frenetic need had dissipated out of Bilbo.

Not all of it though, Thorin realized as two fingers slid inside him.

He startled, bucking his hips, which of course just brought those fingers in deeper, and intensified the exquisite burn they caused.

“Ohhh, you’re gorgeous, you’re so very good for me, Thorin. Oh, you took that so well. And you still wanted more, didn’t you?” Bilbo crooned above him, already beginning to move his hand.

Thorin knew he was flushing.

“I’m happy to give you more if that’s the case. Is that what you want, Thorin? You want me inside you, making you make such sweet sounds? You do it so beautifully.” Bilbo’s fingers had begun to pump into him, and with the burn fading away, Thorin had no desire but to beg for more.

Bilbo bent over him as he did, kissing him with more sweetness than the last, and twisted to whisper in his ear as another finger joined the first two.

It hadn’t been long since they had last found time alone, and Bilbo’s murmured praise wasn’t any exceptional exaggeration.

By the time Bilbo’s patience thinned once more, Thorin was giddy from both the words and the feeling of fingers setting stars alight in his eyes. He was coiled tight, and groaned in utter contentment when his knees were hefted up and Bilbo slid deep deep inside him.

There was nothing like that feeling of absolute fullness. Nothing like the way he could feel his body open and spread to take Bilbo. Nothing like the knowledge that if he set his hand over his lower stomach he could actually feel Bilbo’s cock inside him.

With an endless stream of moaned words as a backdrop, Bilbo moved faster and faster, harder and harder, until there was no choice but for Thorin to take himself in hand. His own sharp tugs countered the slap of the hobbit’s hips and it took hardly any time before he spilled over his hand.

Bilbo followed not long after, crying out Thorin’s name in his bright clear voice before collapsing at his side.

They wiped down with whatever cloth came to hand, and fell into a cozy sleep, unaware of what awaited them with the dawn.

 

***

 

Bilbo was a hobbit, as was particularly obvious to those blessed with the gift of sight, or those without, who had spent more than a few minutes in his presence. The subject tended to come up, usually in connection to a list of complaints about the lack of sunlight and vegetables, and sunlight, and fresh air, and oh yes, _sunlight_ within the mountain.

But, being as he was a hobbit at his core, he was still a morning person.

Which meant that regardless of whatever exuberant amorous activity he and Thorin managed to get up to the night before, Bilbo almost always woke first.

Today was no exception.

He rolled up to sit, letting Thorin stay asleep a while longer. He wouldn’t have to share the bath that way. Eyes still muzzy, he stumbled toward the bathing chamber, stopping only to light a candle on the low burning oil lamp.

He ached. Ached in a way he had not felt since the very beginning of the journey, when the displeasure of riding the ponies had been at its sharpest. He must have pulled something.

So he drew a particularly hot bath, blessing dwarven engineering for what had to be the millionth time since Erebor had been reclaimed, and sank into the water with his eyes just barely open enough to see the lip of the tub.

Blindly, he reached up to splash water over his face and hair before he bothered to find the soap.

Except.

Slowly, Bilbo put his hands back to his face and no. No. That was most assuredly a beard.

He was going to have to kill Thorin. Or Kíli, whoever was responsible for this particular prank.

Attaching a beard to a person’s face while they slept, really!

Never mind the bath, he had a dwarf to kill.

Bilbo stood up and made it two steps toward the door. That was when he glanced to the side with his now awake eyes, saw the extravagant silver mirror, and properly looked at himself.

“Oh dear.”

But perhaps he was just being deceived by some kind of spelled dwarven creation designed to make him look every inch like a rugged, muscled, gloriously handsome dwarf.

So, Bilbo looked down, namely, looked down at his feet.

And giggled.

They were so very naked, and small. and his toes were so tiny and neat he very nearly cooed at them as he twiddled them.

Then his attention was caught by something a bit higher off the ground than his adorable tootsies.

Oh my.

That wasn’t his.

But he recognized it. Oh dear, how he recognized it. After all, he had spent the last several months lavishing it with attention and affection and watching it grow interested in said attention and oh goodness, just like it was doing now.

But it was such a nice cock.

And truly, if anyone had been around to ask, Bilbo would have stated with certainty that he was still asleep, so the lazy stroke he gave it was rather understandable. But oh, oh oh my, that felt at once both larger and smaller than it ought to have as the memory of his mind warred with the memory of his hands.

Not that the shaft in question cared about his befuddlement as it began to rise in full.

Really, it was just good manners to tend to what it wanted. And no Baggins ever wanted to be counted as being rude.

This most excellent and logical line of thought was how he found himself leaning against the tub, staring at the body in the mirror as muscles shifted beneath tattoos and dense hair. Staring and gaping and finding himself growing ever more aroused by the sight of what absolutely had to be a dream. No other answer for it.

But he was still enraptured by the sight of the cock in his fist, broader and darker than his own as it was pumped in his hand.

He didn’t even need a second hand to encircle it. Clearly dreaming.

Bilbo couldn’t have been more than a few strokes from completion, and, in all probability, the end of the dream, when the door flew open and in stepped… well… himself.

Similarly nude, though, with a blanket wrapped about the waist; wide eyed, grumpy, and very confused.

But all the same, that was most definitely a hobbit in front of him, and as Bilbo was the only hobbit in the mountain, this was all rather confusing.

And as the hobbit in the doorway realized what he was doing, his arms crossed, the blanket fell, and he scowled in a way that was more intimidating than anything Bilbo had ever managed. Bilbo, still convinced that the cheese at supper was at fault for all this, continued to pump into his fist, and the hobbit before him managed to speak.

“What in Mahal’s name are you doing to my body Master Baggins?”

 

***

 

Thorin Oakenshield, unlike certain hobbits currently leaning against steaming tubs while they molested bodies not belonging to themselves, had understood events nearly from the moment he had opened his eyes.

The lack of aches and pains had made it clear something had changed. He was a hundred and ninety five years old, and despite what he told Oin, and Bilbo, and everyone else that asked, he was still a bit sore and twanging from the injuries in the battle. And the cold didn’t help.

The fact that his arse hadn’t even felt, uh, tender, had confirmed the fact that something was amiss. Then he had attempted to stand, overestimated his own body, and landed on his face.

It had taken all of two seconds for him to piece it together, and to blame the damned wizard.

“New perspective” Thorin’s hairy muscular chest — oh wait, smooth, slightly padded chest. Oh.

He had spent quite a long time admiring that chest, so his hands really started wandering without thinking about it. Thorin however, was able to control himself. A bit. After learning that Bilbo’s nipples were even more sensitive than he had thought when pinched.

And when he heard a rather distinct rhythm coming from the bathing chamber. One that he knew well. No, not that well, but that he — never mind.

He knew what was going on in there. Since there weren’t enough dwarves in the mountain to even allow for basic servants yet, that meant it was Bilbo and since Thorin was already aware of this whole body swapping business, he knew what that sound meant.

His glower might have been more effective had he been himself. His normal, tall, imposing, well-built self. The one currently being ministered to by an unashamed hand.

“What in Mahal’s name are you doing to my body Master Baggins?”

Bilbo, and it was Bilbo, no matter if he was in the body of an aged and, surely sore dwarf, finally paused his motions.

“I uh…” Thorin’s voice was deeper than he’d thought, and it was oddly pleasing. “I was just… No. Never you mind, me, I’m clearly asleep. Though, if you want to come help? I’ve not been on this side of it.” Bilbo quirked an eyebrow and resumed his hand’s movement. “Oh come on Bilbo, give me a hand?”

“Bilbo.”

“Oh, this is a very strange dream.”

“This isn’t a dream.”

“Of course it is, I’m you. That just doesn’t happen.”

“Bilbo.” Thorin scowled harder. Then reclaimed the blanket he had lost as he was ignored in favor of a quick completion. “Bilbo.”

Unrepentant, Bilbo turned and slid back into the tub to get clean. He settled into the low seat, and groaned, short and in pain. His eyes went wide, and he began to affect an increasingly concerned wiggle as he shifted his hips beneath the water.

When, after the certainty of the fact had managed to penetrate his mind, Bilbo turned, hands passing worriedly over the beard on his face, patting at the hair that hung in tangles, and standing from the water, “Thorin? Why am I you? What did you do?”

 

***

 

They were both quite grumpy by the time they had bathed and dressed and sat down with a pot of tea and tried to make sense of what in the name of the Valar was going on. Thorin seemed confident that this was all the fault of the wizard. While that was a more apt guess than Bilbo’s feeble attempt to blame it on a prank from the princes, Bilbo didn’t want that to be the answer.

Gandalf had left.

Vanished.

Buggered off into the wild blue yonder, like he did, and they hadn’t the faintest idea of how to reach him.

Not encouraging.

Bilbo was a great deal more than the hobbit that had left his smial more than a year ago, but he was _not_ a dwarven prince.

King.

Bugger.

The coronation was this week.

The coronation that was going to be held in Khuzdul.

Entirely.

“Thorin, we have to fix this.”

The hobbit shaped Thorin looked up with a mouth stuffed full of biscuits, and frowned.

“What, do you not like my body? You seemed to take plenty of pleasure with it earlier?” he retorted petulantly.

“I am always well pleased with your body Thorin, as the pain in your, my, no wait, in _your_ arse should attest. Not that you can feel it—and by the way, you really ought to tell me if I’m going too hard on you. I don’t believe that it’s meant to still smart like this the next day.”

“That was hardly too hard Bilbo.”

“I can barely sit in the chair!”

Thorin managed to affect his normal glaring frown, even in Bilbo’s body. Thank Eru it was less effective there.

“Thorin.”

“Bilbo.”

“For all the insult you gave me about taking so long to work out what had happened, you’ve missed something rather important.”

“And that is?”

“We don’t know how to undo this.”

“It will likely happen on its own, isn’t that usually the case with such magics?”

“Well how would I know!”

“Calm down before you wake up the others, Bilbo.”

“You still haven’t noticed it yet.”

“What then?”

Bilbo picked up one of the biscuits off of Thorin’s plate and took a bite with a malicious smirk.

“What happens in three days Thorin?”

“The coron—“

Thorin’s head snapped up, curls bouncing, and his eyes flew wide.

Then, out of the mouth of a hobbit, fell what was probably the most vulgar khuzdul sentence the world had ever heard.

 

***

 

They couldn’t tell the others.

Of course not.

There would be panicking. They would try to postpone the coronation. There would be assumptions made about Thorin’s mental state, which he thoroughly did not need. He had thrown off dragon sickness and been personally healed by two elves and a wizard. He was fine.

He did not need anyone questioning his sanity again.

Not this week.

And they most certainly would if he and Bilbo didn’t manage to pull this off without it being noticed.

Thorin tripped for the fifth time as he made his way back the meeting with Ori about the books in the library, and cursed enormous hobbit feet.

He and Bilbo had spent most of the morning yelling at each other.

Fortunately their shouts were a common enough sound in the royal wing, else someone might have come in to investigate. Or come closer and overheard. Neither was acceptable. None of this was acceptable.

He was short, and beardless. His hair was too short to do even a small braid.

He couldn't find a single pair of shoes in all the closets of the royal wing that could even come close to covering his feet.

Worst of all. He was hungry.

Clearly Bilbo hadn’t been eating enough.

There was no other answer. All that nonsense about seven meals a day? Just ludicrous.

This was clearly Bilbo’s fault for not eating enough at the three meals that normal people consumed. And Thorin was going to prove his point in that long standing argument by demonstrating that it was perfectly easy for a hobbit to live on three meals.

Even as he thought it, his stomach growled ominously.

“Shhh. I’ll have none of that. We have an argument to win.”

He turned from the main corridor, into the long passage up to the royal wing, and cursed. Colorfully.

He couldn’t see a damned thing.

Hobbits really did have terrible vision in the dark. No wonder Bilbo never walked alone without one of the oil lamps.

Thorin shivered, and pulled his coat a little further closed, not that it helped a bit. Considering that they had both known they’d be acting strangely, neither had wanted to risk being caught because they wore something unusual. Thorin felt naked.

Four pieces of clothing.

That was all.

And this was what his hobbit tromped around the mountain wearing.

This was what he wore as he flitted about and chatted with the dwarves still recovering from wounds. This was the state of undress he flounced about in as he made nice with the dwarves that weren’t still recovering.

Thorin had known this. After all, he had taken great delight in just how little there was in between himself and a naked hobbit previously.

Presently, it was just irritating him.

So he stormed into the room, furious, and expecting to be able to throw most of a tantrum before anyone noticed and came to check on him.

After all, Bilbo was the only one who would likely bother, and he would be stuck in the treaty session until late afternoon at the earliest.

More likely it would be until dark.

There was plenty of time for a tantrum worthy of a dwarfling, or a hobbit.

Instead he found Bilbo draped over a chair, munching on some vegetable Thorin couldn't be bothered to recognize, with a pile of tunics and furs puddled on the ground beside him.

“Oh hello, how was the library?”

“Why are you returned so soon? Was the session cancelled for the day?”

“Oh, I suppose you could say so. All of them are cancelled now.”

Thorin growled. He had expected that Bilbo would cause some trouble while pretending to be him him, but to have driven off the elves entirely? This was a disaster.

“What did you do?”

Thorin scratched at a beard he didn't have and forced himself to cross his arms and stop that.

“Me? Oh, well.” That smile was not encouraging. It was the same one that Bilbo used before he delivered some cutting remark. “I didn’t do much. I just finalized the agreement.”

“You what?”

“And signed it.”

“How could you do that?”

“Your signature isn’t hard to fake, Thorin.”

“I told you this morning that—“

“Yes, well. I ignored you. And now, there is a group travelling south to fetch back a whole mountain worth of food, for us and for Laketown. All around, I’d say it was a good day’s work.”

“And what did you give them in return for their exorbitant terms?”

Bilbo smiled and fiddled with a bead at the end of a braid, “A bit of gold. After all, I am the king, aren’t ?”

 

***

 

That had been an impressive row.

Bilbo had spent about half of it giggling. He really wished he could hear what giggles out of Thorin’s mouth sounded like, but, unfortunately, as he was in the body doing the giggling, he wasn’t quite able.

They had fought that morning too.

Thorin had been insistent that Bilbo do nothing that could be considered a decision, and that all things of import would be handled that evening when Bilbo reported on the events of the council session.

Well.

Then Bilbo learned that there was food on the line.

Despite the fact that he had been content with three meager meals, and probably could have skipped dinner without any hardship, he had to think that one day he would be a hobbit again. Therefore, food mattered.

So Bilbo had read the agreement proposed by Bard, negotiated a fifteen percent reduction in the payment of gold — he was pretending to be Thorin after all — and then signed it.

Just that easy.

Then he had run away from Dain.

The dwarf used khuzdul more often than not, and while Bilbo did have a teensy bit of knowledge of it (fine, quite a bit, Bifur was chatty) he wasn’t confident in his ability to speak it. Thus the fleeing. Then the running. Then the tripping because boots were cumbersome, heavy, ridiculous things. As was the musty furred coat. And the crown.

That’s why Thorin had found him stripped down to shirt and trousers and crown, having a snack.

Then came the yelling.

That had been lovely fun. Yelling as a dwarf seemed to be far more effective. At one point he felt like he was roaring. He’d never managed that before. He’d half expected guards to come running. Hobbits rarely were that terrifying.

Thorin had just gotten increasingly frustrated with his diminutive size and begun to pout.

Bilbo would have found that look precious on Thorin’s actual face. On his own? He wasn’t swayed. It was actually, loathe though he was to admit it, a bit cute.  

Thorin had insisted that Bilbo cancel all further negotiations until this had been settled.

Bilbo had thrown a carrot at him.

Then Thorin had huffed and scoffed and, still caught up in pretending to be Bilbo, stamped his foot before departing.

That was how they found themselves in the communal dining room that the company used for their weekly meal two days later, scorching each other with furious glares, and baffling the rest of the company. Balin sidled up to Thorin and nudged him in the shoulder, “Come now Bilbo, you ought to be smiling. Plus, there’s a ship sailing south right now to fetch up all manner of food. Not to mention, we’ve got the coronation in three days.”

Thorin’s glare just intensified, and he rubbed a hand over his bare chin.  Bilbo watched from the head of the table, smugly grinning as he ate yet more of the veggie soup. The coronation hadn’t happened yet, but he was still being treated as the king.

It was rather nice.

Not that Bilbo had any interest in this going on long term. In theory, Gandalf was invited to the coronation, so the odds were evenly split on whether he would actually manage to remember and reappear in time. Bilbo had signed Thorin’s name to an order that the wizard be brought to him as soon as he arrived just that morning. As if that would do any good.

In case the bothersome menace didn’t return in time, there was something else that they needed to assure.

Bilbo caught Balin’s attention as the meal ended — no need to interrupt dinner after all — and requested a word.

“What can I do for you?”

“For the coronation, Master Baggins will be in attendance.” He said in his very best grumpy Thorin impersonation.

“Of course he will Thorin. We discussed this weeks ago. No one here will begrudge his attendance, except for himself. I don’t believe he’s pleased about attending a ceremony of that length without knowing what is being said.” The sour scowl that passed his face must have passed muster for the advisor, since he set a companionable arm on his shoulder and continued encouragingly, “Don’t worry Thorin, whatever you’ve done to upset Bilbo, I’m sure you’ll be able to make it right.”

“Mmm.”

When in doubt, non verbal grunts of an unpleasant nature seemed to always sound like Thorin. It wasn’t even hard to find it since Bilbo was quite mad at Thorin.

“Are you worried about the language again? Something must be bothering you.”

“Master Baggins needs to stand beside me during the ceremony.”

Bilbo had thought it would be a simple request. A minor thing. A little concession he could pass off as a desire to -- actually, he was just hoping no one asked him why. He had decided that Thorin would just have to be nearby, to whisper the correct words to him for when he inevitably forgot them all.

By the stunned look on Balin’s face, it wasn’t that easy.

By the stunned look of every other dwarf in the company, Bilbo had just done something important.

By the way that Thorin began cursing in both Westron and Khuzdul, he was unlikely to be able to fix it.

However, it turned out that there was another of Thorin’s bad habits there to save him.

Before Balin could say anything else, Bilbo did his best to roar, “He will be beside the throne!  I’ll not hear a word against it!”

Then he swept out of the room.

 

***

 

Thorin was going to kill himself a hobbit, er, dwarf, er, himself — _Bilbo_. Thorin was going to have to kill Bilbo.

After he had watched himself everything shy of proclaim a hobbit Consort of Erebor in front of the entire company and storm out the door, Thorin had taken a few minutes to attempt damage control. Not that it went well.

“No. No. I never said — or, perhaps I should say that he has never— This is not something that has been discussed, not that I understand what you’re talking about, after all, Im just a hobbit. I don’t even want to stay in the mountain, if that's what you’re implying that is. I’m going back to Bag End. I’m a hobbit. Not a dwarf. I don’t live in mountains. And, and, I would rather you not — that is, actually. No. No. Uh… Excuse me.”

And he had run as well as possible through the dark halls on an empty stomach and gigantic feet.

He shushed the grumbling in his gut, and stomped into his room. Inside he found Bilbo fidgeting at the braids in his hair, and toeing off the boots.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done Bilbo?”

Not wise.

Bilbo spun, and angry hobbit was far scarier when said hobbit was a head taller than him. He kicked the second boot off and dropped fists onto his hips, wagging a finger in Thorin’s direction.

“Not right now Thorin!” Not right now! I have spent the last two days being you, which I have to say is far more unpleasant than I could have expected it to be. I have had to haul about in those great heavy boots, and attend your meetings and why on earth can’t your body eat more Thorin? I had four biscuits and a bowl of soup for lunch and thought I’d burst! What is wrong with you?

“Why does your stomach constantly grumble at me?”

“Why haven’t you told Oin about the fact that this thing still hurts so much? Why haven’t you told him that you’re in pain all day long?”

“I’m not in pain all day!”

“Well you’re not now!”

“I never am!”

“And another thing Mr Thorin Oakenshield, Never mind our previous arrangements, I’ll not be enjoying your lovely arse anymore! I can’t _believe_ it’s still a bit sore!”

Thorin did not gasp. That would have been entirely too much like an elf.

He did slam a fist against the table, and immediately yelp in pain. Bilbo had him tucked into a chair with a cup of tea and a cold washcloth a moment later. Thorin had always known that Bilbo was made of softer stuff than a dwarf, but this was just obnoxious. Then he accidentally thought about the last year, and his furious temper became a bit more penitent.

He did not need additional reminders of the risk he had dragged Bilbo into on the quest. He had enough of them without looking for new ones.

So he drank the tea.

“There, see, now you look like a proper hobbit.”

Bilbo sat down, sipped at his own cup, and proceeded to shush every time Thorin tried to speak. It was only after both cups were empty that he finally allowed it.

“Now then. Tell me what I just did that has everyone in such a fuss, and then tell me if you have a better plan for getting through the coronation. Because I can’t possibly learn that much khuzdul that fast Thorin. I’ve been reading your notes, but I just don’t think i can manage it.”

Thorin contemplated hedging.

He contemplated dodging.

He even contemplated saying nothing at all and chasing down Balin to give his assent as Bilbo.

Instead, he braced himself. “You requested that I stand beside you.”

“Yes.”

“In the traditional location of the Consort.”

Bilbo’s reaction looked just like him, despite being placed on a dwarven face.

“Oh.”

“Yes: Oh.”

 

***

 

It turned out that with enough panic behind it, even a dwarf could faint.

It was just fortunate that no one beside Thorin was there to see it. If there had been, all this nonsense would have just gotten worse.

If that was possible.

So Bilbo woke up staring at his own face, which was on a strange angle above him, twisted in concern and saying his name. As soon as he was able to push Thorin off — which was entirely easy: he could have lifted Thorin clear off the ground if he’d wanted, and that was a thought he cut off as soon as it started — he stood up and began looking for the boots he had shucked from his feet.

“I’ll just tell Balin I changed my mind.”

“You would sully my honorable reputation?” Thorin asked from the floor.

“Then you go find him and say I explained the request and then you refused!”

Some little flicker of temper passed over the hobbit’s face. “As you said, we have no other solution for getting you successfully through the coronation ceremony, Bilbo. We have no choice. The rest will… it will have to be addressed later, after this catastrophe has been concluded.”

Bilbo blinked, and the madness of these last days caught up with him. He was in the wrong bloody body. He was in Thorin, and not in the way he generally preferred to be. He was exhausted, and if they didn’t miraculously find themselves in their proper bodies again soon, he was going to probably bugger this up to the point that Thorin would be disgraced.

Unfortunately, Bilbo’s hobbit manners were apparently still in his normal body.

Instead, he responded like a dwarf. All bluster and yelling. All flailing and obfuscation of true intent.

“Oh I’m a catastrophe am I? Well,” Bilbo managed to get the second boot on his foot and rose, wagging his finger. The braids in his hair bounced as he did. “I’ll have you know Mr Oakenshield, that you’d best just think of a way to repair whatever it was that I just implied by instigating the only plan I have to keep your sorry sore arse on your throne and and your big head in that crown. Because this will be over at some point, and if you think I’m just going to stick about this blasted mountain as your bloody consort just because of all this nonsense you have another thing coming.”

And with a rather anticlimactic harumph, he stomped out of the room.

 

***

 

Thorin had a problem. He would call it a small problem, but he didn’t want his hobbit to come back and yell at him again. And that had most certainly been his hobbit yelling with his body. So he mentally corrected himself, and called it a pleasantly stout problem.

Then he went back to rubbing himself through his trousers.

Bilbo in a huff had long been an instigator of Thorin’s lust, and it seemed to be a question of personality more than appearance. Not that Thorin didn’t find the nose tweaking and the bouncing curls and all of that irresistible, but it would seem that the thing he was really so hopelessly attracted to was Bilbo’s anger. His temper. His mind.

After the ranting and the abrupt exit, Thorin had found himself in a situation he had been in many a time. Unlike Bilbo though, Thorin tried to resist.

He tried to will the rising erection away.

He tried to think of anything unpleasant he could bring to mind.

It wasn’t going well.

Every time he managed to make progress, he would realize that is was Bilbo’s cock, which he was quite familiar with, and then his mind would return to the things he had done to said cock in the past, and then, well… see, clearly, he had a problem.

Huffing, and dragging a blanket over his shoulders to keep off how cold he was in his too few clothes, Thorin settled in the chair by the fireplace. If he could not make it stop, he would just have to finish this.

Thorin intended to simply take care of it, quickly, efficiently, with the minimal imposition onto Bilbo’s body. Then he grabbed hold of the length that had turned him into a mess of babbling pleasure so many times. Not long after, Thorin abandoned his plan. So long as this was happening, he ought to at least take advantage of it.

No. That wasn’t the way to think of it.

He needed to not waste the opportunity.

He could test, experiment, find out exactly what and where was the most sensitive on this little hobbit body. Thorin had a good idea of some of it. His stones were just as reactive as he had thought. He was stroking as hard as he could and still wanted more. He wanted harder, rougher. This explained Bilbo encouraging Thorin to continue swordplay and smithing.

Those calluses on Thorin’s normal hands would be astounding.

His mind wandered off as he explored and experimented, holding himself barely above the impulse to finish.

He had opened the shirt, thrown off the trousers, and was mostly bare beneath his blanket as he began more extensive explorations.

Naturally, that was when the door opened.

 

***

 

Well, after Bilbo had murdered the dwarf inhabiting his body, he was probably going to have to stay a dwarf forever.

Inconvenient.

He was also going to have to pretend he was king.

Awkward.

No matter.

That was a price he was willing to pay.

The sound that left his mouth upon surveying the room wasn’t particularly intelligent, coherent, or even proper words. it was more of a squawk.

Bilbo had returned contrite, intent on apologies and rational conversation, well aware that he may have overreacted a tad.

Thorin froze.

Well. Mostly froze.

Froze _a_ _bit_.

No. That wasn’t it either.

His head had turned, his expression had locked into a mix of angry terror which was truly surreal to see on his own face. It was a common Thorin look, Bilbo knew it well. Other than that panicked expression, he hadn’t really stopped moving at all.

Bilbo tilted his head slowly to the side, seeing where Thorin’s hands were.

No wonder he hadn’t stopped.

It would take self control of sterner stuff than either of them possessed to stop just then. His cock was an almost angry red, leaking in pulses with each stroke of Thorin’s hand. Thorin’s other hand — well, Bilbo knew that it was Thorin’s preference, but it was still startling to see himself opened up around the fingers buried in his ass.

They hadn’t ever switched. Bilbo hadn’t really considered.

He hadn’t hardly thought about it.

And the realization that it was Thorin who was tormenting his body like that derailed his mind.

The anger was back, but it was taking a backseat to the flood of pressure into his trousers.

Yelling later.

Touching now.

 

***

 

Watching your own body be revealed as clothing was plucked off and tossed aside didn’t seem like it should be attractive. Thorin had seen that body daily for nearly two centuries. Yet, his mind couldn’t help knowing that it was Bilbo that was stripping him, and he was a big fan of Bilbo stripping him.

So Thorin just kept doing what he had been doing, aware of how furious Bilbo was.

The trouble with the fact that they were so angry, was that they were now in a contest. They were trying not to be the first to come, and were trying to prove their superior skill through unspoken agreement.

Thorin was at a disadvantage, he had been at this for quite some time.

His hands were slick with oil, and watching the head of the much larger cock vanishing in and out of Bilbo’s hand was just making him think about relative sizes, and the location of his fingers.

But no. This was strange enough.

They couldn’t possibly.

He was already bewildered by this still mounting arousal at watching himself have a wank. Bilbo had a similarly conflicted expression. They couldn’t just do that. Even thinking about it was odd. Even if he did want that, and he did, the thought of watching himself in that situation…

No.

All of this thinking about Bilbo fucking him wasn’t helping his control, and he was worried about losing the spontaneous competition.

He had no cause for worry.

A few seconds later, Bilbo groaned in a voice far deeper than normal, and spilled over his hand. Thorin followed not long after, unable to stop the gasp that left his mouth.

Blinking, uncomfortable, and quite definitely in the body of a sated dwarf, Bilbo vanished silently into the bathroom.

 

***

 

After pitching a wet cloth at Thorin’s head Bilbo shut the door, sank onto the edge of the tub, and berated himself.

They needed to talk. About all of this. The body shifting hoopla was bad enough. Bilbo accidentally proposing to himself wasn’t much better. There was a list as long as his arm of things they needed to discuss, and all Bilbo wanted to do hide until the refractory period had ended, until his blood was hot again, and then go ravish Thorin the hobbit.

He had always liked the fantasy of being able to boss about and manhandle Thorin the way they both wanted. Not really an option when one was more than a head shorter and not a third as strong. In the present state…

No.

The coronation was tomorrow evening. They had to prioritize.

“Is there any chance you could teach me enough of the ceremony to get through without you there to help?” He asked as he returned to the living room. Thorin was sitting, contrite and half dressed on the couch.

“If we had more time,” Thorin’s hand tried to scratch at his beard, found it missing and awkwardly scrubbed through his hair to cover it, “more time might make it possible. As it is, no. The ceremony is long, and we have lost the last two days to argument.”

“And if we proceed with my plan?” Bilbo tried to pitch his deep voice to something softer.

“It will be taken as everything shy of a marriage ceremony.”

“Well, obviously that’s not an option.” Bilbo stood up and puttered about, gathering things to make some tea. Tea would help. Tea always helped. Thorin was silent and uncomfortable.

This was a worse situation for him than it was for Bilbo.

Bilbo’s comfort had been interrupted, certainly, but this was Thorin’s life, reputation, and rule on the line. Thorin wasn’t thinking clearly. So Bilbo would have to do it for him.

First, he had to recall his manners.

“I apologize for yelling earlier.”

Thorin nodded, accepting it.

“This is a strange situation we’ve found ourselves in, isn’t it?”

“You hardly have to tell me that, Thorin. Are you sure we can’t just tell Balin about all of this? He can’t just claim you’ve taken ill? You can’t just postpone the ceremony?” Bilbo watched Thorin’s normal grumpy disapproval and dismissal cross his own face, and watched his own nose wrinkle. This was so very ridiculous. “No. Dwarves don’t catch cold, and I’d rather not take on a serious injury or eat that rotting sack of grain they tried to use last week. So we just have to get through the ceremony then. Have you got any better ideas?”

“Beyond my whispering the vows to you like a dwarfing cheating at lessons? No.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Though, you need to teach me the pronunciations before or this is going to be a mess. And afterwards, once we’re back to being ourselves, we can have a nice big row in the throne room, and I’ll storm off in a huff to visit the elves and you can tell everyone that we’ve decided against it after all. Yes?”

Thorin’s hands twitched, as if they wanted to fiddle with a braid he wasn’t wearing. Not a word left his mouth, and he very carefully looked everywhere except at Bilbo.

Hobbit body aside, Thorin was doing everything that he ever did when he was dodging a conversation. Just because he didn’t have long enough hair to spin, or a thousand buckles on his clothes to adjust didn’t make it any less obvious.

“What?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re doing the thing. What have you not told me now? Is that some horrid slight? Would I never be allowed back in the mountain if I broke off a fake engagement with you?”

The fidgeting got worse until Bilbo snapped Thorin’s name.

“Once an engagement has been ended no new one can exist between the pair!” He snapped back, hauling his cocoon of a blanket closer to the fire petulantly. “And why is your body always so cold? Why don’t you wear more clothing? Heavier clothing! Why didn’t you tell me that half the furniture in the mountain is the wrong size for you? Why didn’t you tell me that seven meals wasn’t decadence? I fainted yesterday! Didn’t you know that—“

Bilbo liked to think that had he been himself, he would have caught on a bit faster. It was clearly the fault of the stone-witted body he was trapped in that it took him a solid three minutes to process it through. Not that Thorin’s continued guilty rambling helped.

But Bilbo hadn’t out-riddled a monster and a dragon only to be defeated by the wits of a dwarf. He sat on the carpet beside him.

“Thorin?” He stopped mid-word. “Are you upset about that possibility?”

 

***

 

His mouth had just betrayed him, and his attempt to hide behind a verbal barrage had failed.

Retreat was no longer an option.

His traitorous hobbit mouth and just, wholly without permission, yelled an affirmation. After all, nothing quite rounded out a startling declaration of love quite like yelling.

Retreat was entirely off the table. So Thorin advanced.

Literally.

He grabbed Bilbo by the braids — they really were great for it — and dragged him into a kiss. It didn’t matter that Thorin was kissing himself. It didn’t matter that he was used to kissing someone with bare cheeks. It didn’t matter that their lives had gone mad and that he had just told an absolute truth he had never, ever, planned to mention.

It was Bilbo, and kissing Bilbo was always wonderful.

Bilbo kissing him back was extraordinary.

Not that they hadn’t done this before in every way either could think of, but it was all new.

It was all incredible.

It was them, and Bilbo wasn’t horrendously offended by what Thorin had just said, and that meant Thorin was probably going to have to face down an entire council of furious dwarves after this was done, and none of it mattered.

Then they broke apart, looked in each other’s eyes and simultaneously withdrew.

That wasn’t the face they were expecting to see.

Bilbo cleared his throat a bit awkwardly.

“So then, uh. I suppose you have a plan for tomorrow then?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! Hm. Dwalin.”

“What?”

“I think Dwalin is going to win a purse. Just, uh, something he said earlier.”

“Bilbo you—“ Thorin stopped, not sure what he was asking, “You aren’t uncomfortable with this? You don’t— after all you’re a hobbit, or, normally you are, and hobbits have no, that is, I am a king and you are just —“

Bilbo kissed him again.

“You be careful how you finish that sentence Thorin Oakenshield. You and that damned heavy crown have nothing to do with all this between us, so don’t you go saying I think I don’t deserve you. I’ll go borrow Ori’s notes and read it all out to you if I have to.”

That needed to be kissed.

He brought up his hands, mind expecting those same short curls around his fingers he had touched so many times. They broke apart again, each a bit confused, sporting twin grimaces.

“In the dark maybe?”

“Sounds like a plan, Thorin.”

 

***

 

This was simply the strangest thing he had ever done.

And he had robbed a dragon.

This won, though.

It was cerebral and bizarre, but hearing Thorin moaning like that, higher pitched than usual, was eroding his self control. That he could use just one hand to hold his hobbit body on his back was making him giddy. That Thorin was loving that surrender was even better.

So he continued to work Thorin with hands and mouth.

The darkness of the bedchamber helped.

They had fallen on each other, and after a bit of a bickering fit over who would be taking whom, Bilbo had pinned Thorin down, and it had turned from arguing to begging in the space of a breath.

Strangest week of his life. No contest.

As he sucked and pumped, he could hear himself as a tween lamenting his lack of flexibility to do exactly this and giggled. Or, if he’d been himself, he’d have giggled; in a dwarf’s body it was more of a hum. Which sent a shudder trembling from Thorin’s furry feet to the points of his ears.

He pulled off, well acquainted with that reaction and what it forecast.

This was intoxicating. They knew exactly how to unstring each other. Bilbo knew exactly what he loved most, and was using it to take Thorin apart. It was his own cock he was paying such attention to, he knew the way to flick his wrist as he pumped, he knew how much he loved a pointed tongue beneath the head. He knew just when teasing shifted from tickling to torment.

Before Bilbo had taken control, Thorin had been on his knees beside the bed, and it had been good that they’d not tried that while standing. They both were too good at it like this.

The only thing that they were a bit cautious about was prepping Bilbo. There was a reasonable argument to be made on the subject of proportions. Reasonable fled when they had realized that the situation fit their fantasies too well to resist. Thorin was going to be the one who was sore anyway, and he’d claimed he wouldn’t mind it.

All the same, Bilbo was taking his time, scissoring his fingers gently, working in and out, using more oil than they ever had before. Thorin’s hands were in Bilbo’s hair, petting and stroking and it took focus for Bilbo to not just melt into the sensation.

Thorin’s begging was desperate and whiny, high pitched and breathy before Bilbo withdrew his fingers. He circled his fingers around his cock, heady on the thought of just how much larger it was than his normal one.

He sank in, inexorably slow, savoring the pressure and the draw. Thorin gasped and keened throughout, peppering his mindless sounds with continued pleas. It convinced Bilbo that Thorin really was fine, and as soon as he was fully seated, he began to pull back at that same horridly slow pace.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours, as they rocked on that patient wave.

“Thorin. Oh Thorin, you feel so tight. So good. Oh goodness, you’re— oh you’re so tight, I can’t—“ All of this madness would have to be dealt with after it was all sorted, just then, the only thing that mattered was to keep going. To keep making Thorin whimper like that.

Thorin was nearly desperate, and Bilbo had grabbed his hands to keep him from touching himself.

They were moving faster, sweaty and panting, when Bilbo felt the start of a monstrous headache.

 

***

 

Thorin could die a happy dwarf right that moment. Happy hobbit.

Whichever.

There wasn’t a thing in his mind except the fullness and the glide of flesh and the arching want that was coiling in his gut.

Bilbo had him utterly caught, utterly controlled, and was blissfully fucking him into the pillows. Bilbo had agreed to stay. Bilbo was nearly growling as his thrusts picked up speed, and Thorin could do nothing but be dragged along with it.

He was a very happy whatever he was.

There was a moment when it felt like the mountain had collapsed onto his head. Then there was a cloudy moment. Then there was a pop like his ears had adjusted that shook his whole body.

Then came pressure and slick heat around his cock, cool air at his back, and hands gripped beneath his. There was the slide of slick skin and the instinct to take pounding in his blood.

A wrecked sound pulled out of his throat, and was echoed by a higher pitched one from beneath him.

Oh.

Good.

Not the best timing.

But good.

Despite his mind wanting to continue, Thorin forced himself to slow the instinctive thrusting of his hips. This wasn’t Bilbo’s preference. But bare hobbit legs wrapped around his thighs, and Bilbo rocked up his hips with a snap that made the both of them cry out.

“Don’t— oh big mmmm— oh don’t you dare stop Thorin — oh big, big, please oh, I didn’t know it— this is— oh, please more— Thorin!”

Thorin didn’t know until he heard it that this was something he wanted. He didn’t know until he let instinct take over that there was this much pleasure to be had in holding someone down and fucking them into incoherency as there was in being on the other side.

Bilbo was rambling non stop about his own discoveries.

Thorin just had never known.

Now he did.

So they continued. Sloppy and shaken and unaccustomed to the roles, they just fucked until completion had them both gasping, half curled around each other on the now filthy bed.

A long time later, when breathing was normal, and they were cleaned of the mess, they started something different. It was a slow exploration of the other, kissing and touching and revelling in the fact that it felt right again instead constantly intrinsically wrong.

“Well, I suppose you don’t need me up there helping with the khuzdul then.” Bilbo finally said.

“No. I know the ceremony.”

“So this was well timed.”

“Yes.”

“Now I know why you don’t mind being sore.” Thorin could feel the smirk. “And I suppose you’re glad to do the ceremony yourself.”

Bilbo pressed a kiss to Thorin’s shoulder and rolled to his other side, nestling into Thorin’s chest with a moan when the action ground a thigh into his ass. The dwarf knew that sound, and that sensation.

They didn’t fall asleep yet, just stayed, holding onto each other, sorting out the calamity their lives had been the last few days.

It wouldn’t be altogether difficult now to change the ceremony to its original form. Bilbo would stand in the crowd, honored for his aid in the reclamation, but not on the dais. Not a part of Thorin’s rule. It would be far easier. There would be far less fighting. And, clearly, this part of their relationship was determined to continue.

Except.

“Bilbo?”

“Hmm?”

***

The ceremony was long and exceptionally boring, probably because he understood barely a third of it. And Bilbo’s rear hurt. If it hadn’t made him think of the events that caused it every time it twinged, it would have been unbearable.

As it was, it was making him blush.

Which wasn’t great, since most of the kingdom was staring at him.

Hurried into the first formal wear they could find that fit him, he was standing next to Thorin in front of every dwarf under the mountain. Bilbo was sure he was the only person in the hall looking at the dwarf currently reciting the ancient khuzdul vow. He couldn’t stop beaming, not with Thorin looking so happy and regal and confoundedly content.

They had already fought four times since dawn; shouting at each other with all the fire they ever did, and with tiny smiles at the corners of their mouths. They’d probably fight four more times before they went to bed.

And that sounded just fine to him.

  



End file.
